


something good can work

by apollonian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M, also languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:44:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollonian/pseuds/apollonian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds out that Derek speaks Spanish two weeks after Derek comes back to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something good can work

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is inspired by the latest episode, consider this an AU after the end of 3A. The title's from Two Door Cinema Club's Something Good Can Work.  
> This isn't beta'd, and most of it was written late at night, so please point out any mistakes. Also, it's my first foray into writing for the TW fandom, I hope you enjoy! :)

Stiles finds out that Derek speaks Spanish two weeks after Derek comes back to Beacon Hills.

He’s at the Saturday morning farmer’s market half-an-hour out of Beacon Hills, staring at a display of apples and trying to remember whether the apples at Safeway cost less, when he hears a vaguely familiar voice, one that he feels he should know but can’t quite place.

He decides to take a risk at the Safeway and grabs his cloth bag, smiling apologetically at the woman behind the stall, and starts walking towards where he heard the voice coming from. He’s not entirely sure whether he’s hearing things or not, the Nemeton’s been pretty quiet over the past few weeks, ever since Deaton decided to be surprisingly non-cryptic and actually give some helpful tips, but he’s still not – he still isn’t quite sure, sometimes, where the line between reality and dream falls. He winds through the clumps of people, huddled at the stalls – even though it’s only mid-October, there’s a chill in the air, more pronounced in the mornings.

He stops and nearly crashes into a middle-aged woman carefully balancing two overflowing bags when he spots the shock of ink-black hair over at the stall manned by the Rodriguez family, famous for their strawberries. The hair belongs to Derek, no doubt about it – and to confirm that, the crowd parts slightly, just for a moment, and Stiles can see the distinctive black leather jacket, clashing incongruously with the cloth bag Derek holds in his left hand.

Curious, Stiles walks closer, when he’s finally able to hear a snatch of what Derek’s talking about with an unusual level of enthusiasm.

 “…y después, creo que voy a estudiar polaco, porque uno de mis, ah, amigos es de ascendencia polaca. ¿Y qué tal está usted?” Derek asks, and Stiles spots Mr. Rodriguez, who helps out occasionally at the station, start to reply in rapid-fire Spanish, and Derek’s nodding along, smiling at the appropriate moments, and Stiles – well, Stiles is practically dumbfounded. Derek apparently speaks Spanish fluently, and oh, that makes Stiles think of things he’d thought he’d gotten over when Derek had left for six months and had only maintained the bare minimum of contact.

Stiles loiters two stalls down, next to an artful display of potatoes, trying not to let his mind linger too long on what else Derek could say in, you know, a vastly different setting, and as soon as Derek’s wrapped up his conversation and bought his strawberries, Stiles ambushes him (or tries to, at least, he has no doubt that Derek’s already identified his scent by now).

“You speak _Spanish?_ ” Stiles asks, kind of hysterically, falling into step next to him.

“Hello, Stiles, nice to see you too,” Derek replies, deadpan. Since his sabbatical, Derek’s been more relaxed, more willing to let his dry sense of humor out to play, and although Stiles hasn’t talked to him very much at all, he can still see the way Derek’s lost some of his intimidating bulk, how the dark shadows under his eyes have faded, how the furrow between his eyebrows is less pronounced.

“Yeah, yeah, now isn’t the time for niceties – why didn’t you tell me you speak Spanish?” Stiles asks, indignantly. It’s pertinent information, after all, what if they’d needed someone to translate a book in a life-or-death situation – Stiles’ three years of Spanish aren’t nearly good enough, Google Translate isn’t to be trusted when it comes to books involving monsters and mythical creatures, and Scott had dropped Spanish and switched to French when Allison came along – they would’ve probably died, in that case.

Derek snorts when Stiles informs him of this serious oversight. “What about Lydia?” he asks, jostling Stiles a little with his elbow.

Stiles, caught up in looking at Derek out the corner of his eye, blinks and says, “What do you mean, what about Lydia?” Derek gives him a look, then, and Stiles says, “Oh,” and smiles because that look’s very familiar to him, and replies, “Lydia’s off of the Romance languages right now, she’s all about the Greek. Personally, I think she’s mostly prepping for her senior trip there rather than for translating things for us, but you know, to each her own.”

“Well, then,” Derek says, “now you know.” He suddenly stops at another stall, this one selling clementines. Stiles pauses next to him and puts down his bag on the ground. He picks up a clementine, and starts tossing it from hand to hand. “Do you speak any other languages?” he asks, tracking the motion of the clementine.

Instead of answering, Derek leans over and snatches the fruit out of the air, and Stiles scowls. He goes to pick up another one but then sees the dirty look the woman behind the stall is leveling at him, and pasting on his best innocent face, he tucks his hands into his jacket. “Well, do you?” he asks, turning to Derek and watching him inspect the fruits.

“I speak a bit of German,” Derek says, quietly, not looking at Stiles. “Mom – she’d learned German in college and she used to call us her little lieblings...” he trails off, the incomplete sentence hanging in the air. Stiles swallows, throat suddenly dry. “My mom used to speak Polish to me,” he says, equally quietly. “I – I never learned, but she still used to talk to me, and sing lullabies and stuff.”

Derek closes his eyes for a moment and nods. When he opens them again, he determinedly changes the topic, and Stiles goes with the flow. It’s too early to have such heavy conversations.

The rest of the morning passes by with minimal fuss, and surprisingly, it’s actually quite fun, spending time with Derek. He makes inane jokes and teases Derek, and for his part, Derek doesn’t grump about – he laughs and teases Stiles back, and every time he smiles, Stiles’ heart lurches in his chest. It’s the first time he’s seeing Derek so relaxed, and he really, really likes it, and by the time they’ve finished their shopping and are lingering in the parking space, Stiles has decided that he wants to see Derek loose and happy many, many more times. So he mans up, and with butterflies in his stomach, he reaches out, places a hand on Derek’s arm, and trying not to read too much into the way Derek’s eyes widen slightly, he asks, “I really – today was a lot of fun, and I – do you want to go out for coffee sometime?”

 “I –,” Derek says, then pauses. He breathes in, blinks once, and says, “Are you asking me on a date?”

Stiles swallows, and replies, “Yes, but only – but only if you want it to be! If you’re, you know, it can be a friend-date, too, friends go out for coffee all the time—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, “I want it to be a date.” He’s smiling, and Stiles’ poor heart skips a beat then starts hammering away.

“Yeah?” he asks, just to be sure.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. He takes Stiles’ hand that’s slipped down to his forearm in his hand, squeezes, and says, “Text me when and where,” and then he’s gone, walking towards his car in the afternoon sunshine.

Stiles stands there for a few minutes, and once his brain’s finally rebooted itself, he gets into the jeep, grinning stupidly, his hand still tingling. His heart's still thundering in his chest, and he'll probably freak out later about what to wear and where to go and what to do, but for now? He's perfectly content - it's been a great start to his day.

**Author's Note:**

> Spanish translations: "...And then I think I'm going to study Polish, because one of my, ah, friends is of Polish heritage. How are you?" Leibling is German for darling.


End file.
